


rule of beasts

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Rimming, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: Damianos of Akielos is nineteen when he first commits murder.





	1. Chapter 1

Damianos of Akielos is nineteen when he first commits murder.

That’s not to say that he hasn’t slaughtered in the midst of battle, but he has always felt that the casualties of war are faceless.

He was seventeen when he led his first battalion to Kempt, a seventeen day journey by sea. They had taken Inverary, where a parade of slaves bound for Akielon shores had been summarily detained by Kemptian pirates.

He had never looked into a man’s eyes and saw death before that day.

He threw up, once, just afterwards, when the blood was still leaking heavily into the packed earth. Inverary was an old fortress, older than the present Kempt royal House, and Nikandros’ hand had been heavy on his shoulder.

“It is a reckoning, then,” Nikandros said, and Damen had braced his upper body on his knees. Nik hadn’t looked down on him since boyhood.

This is different from then.

This is worse.

His greatsword is bloodied to the hilt. He follows the veins in his hand from where he has gripped too tightly.

If he were to further peruse himself, he is sure he’d find himself speckled in red.

What really matters is what is behind the body.

The boy is slim as to be effervescent, with a shock of hair the mixture of silver coin and bleached yellow.

His eyes are the color of the Ellosean sea and he’s completely nude, mouth pursued in a thin line.

This is the second prince of the House of Vere.

-

Kastor leaves a bruise on Damen’s side just before he sets sail for Vere.

Nikandros is nearby, just outside the ring of the spar, and Damen flicks his index to the side

_ Stay put _

And redoubles his efforts.

He can beat his brother. Truth be told, he could slay him where he stood. Kastor does not lose well. He is proficient at most things he turns his hand to, but he is unfamiliar with loss, and it rankles that his younger brother should be the one to teach him.

“You’ll come to the Veretian court decorated with my charms then, brother?” Kastor teases, and Damen shakes the loose hair from his eyes.

He flips the longsword in the air, a risk, to be sure, but he can count on his brother to be distracted by the dramatic. The shine of it winks on sunlight and he catches it with his left hand, only to angle the tip down at the dirt.

It’s enough to cause his brother to stumble backwards, blade uncomfortably close to sandled feet, and Damen grips his sword over-hand, throwing it into the earth just before Kastor’s ankles.

The moment slows to a crawl and Damen’s right hand flutters. 

The dull slap of an iron hilt into his outstretched palm sends a negligible wave of pain through his forearm, but Nikandros aims true, and so it is his greatsword that Damen aims at his older brother’s neck.

Kastor is breathing heavily, more out of rage than exertion, and he’s still kept immobile by the blade under his chin and the blade before his feet.

“Anything I take,” Damen says, lowering the sword to his side, “you have taught me.”

Kastor walks away without looking back.

Damen cannot quite stifle his sigh, and he hands Nikandros his weapon, hilt first.

“It was he that told me to expect the unexpected,” Damen laments, glancing at the lean figure of his brother as he strides back towards the palace.

Nikandros inspects his sword for longer than is required.

“Only one in a family may be level-headed,” Nik teases, and Damen catches his sword up in his hand.

-

The chambers echo with the blanket of silence.

It must be something other than the lack of sound, Damen thinks hysterically. It is like a tomb. 

He has made a grave of this space.

“You must go.” The words are delivered flatly, but if Damen squints, he can hear an undercurrent of panic.

The boy is twelve.

“We must go together. I will be your alibi.” 

Damen follows the shock of pale hair as it cascades down the boy’s chest. It is long. Longer than Auguste’s, which is kept cut to his shoulders.

The youngest has hair down his back.

“Are you deaf in conjunction with your apparent muteness?” The prince hisses, and Damen squeezes his eyes shut.

“Where would you have me go?” He says, and the words come out like glass, eviscerating an already ruined throat.

“The library,” the boy says, and he’s sitting up in bed, sheet clutched just underneath his chin. “I will need you to go ahead of me. C-can you clean that?”

The prince stutters, and Damen blinks. He takes a good look at him for the first time.

He’s got a sweet curl that is stuck slightly to his forehead with sweat, and his skin is flushed to pink. He’s startlingly young. 

His pupils are dilated so as to be non-existent, and Damen’s stomach lurches uncomfortably with more of that violent anger.

“Give me the sheet,” Damen says, and he remembers Inverary, half-burnt slaves littering the ground, their gold melted around flesh.

“I-I have nothing but this,” he says, and Damen is gratified to see his tongue loosen. 

“I will not look,” Damen says, and he quickly steps around the body, avoiding the pool of viscous blood that is leaking from where the neck should be.

“I must clean my sword, as you’ve instructed,” Damen says, voice modulated to the same cadence he uses for the newborn babes the commonfolk bring him to bless.

“You must dress before the alarm is raised. I will meet you where you ask.” Damen leans forward, angling the sword away from both the prince and his own body.

This close, he sees that his eyes are so pale that they look otherworldly. A child of the fae, Damen murmurs, and he raises his hand slowly, telegraphing his intent.

The prince flinches, an automatic response, and seems to steel himself against whatever is coming next.

“I will not harm you,” Damen says, and it takes the thinning veneer of his control to say it calmly, when he’s so close to what he has seen earlier.

He pushes the hair away from the prince’s neck, and it’s heavier than he expected.

The prince’s cheek is cool against Damen’s warm palm, and, for a moment, the prince leans into the caress, his small body shuddering just once.

“Every second we t-tarry, it becomes less and less possible to save you, Prince D-Damianos,” the prince says, and he swings his legs over the side of the canopied bed.

His legs dangle, and Damen sees there is still a foot and a half drop to the ground from bed to floor.

His chest constricts again, and he holds out an arm for the prince to balance against, should he wish.

The prince has hair long enough  to sit on, and it is wavy, as if it has been hurriedly combed through after braiding.

Damen feels the chill of that porcelain hand once, and he lands on the ground, sure-footed as a cat.

“Go,” he says, and Damen does.

-

Auguste is robust. He is six years Damen’s senior, closer in age to Kastor than Damen himself, but he carries himself with a camaraderie Damen is only used to experiencing with the closest of his peers.

“My God,” he says, as he looks up (and up) in order to meet Damen’s eyes, “is this the agreed upon size of your men?” He slaps a palm against Damen’s bicep in jest. 

“You have need of no further weaponry than this!” 

Damen runs a hand through his hair self-consciously, but his laughter is not feigned. He doesn’t often take note of his own height, and routinely misses the reactions to it, as he is too tall and broad to see those under his gaze unless he deliberately seeks them out.

“I see  _ you _ are more of a height to me,” Auguste says to Nikandros, and Nikandros smiles in that disarming way he has.

“If all Akielons ate like me,” Damen says, “we would’ve long since had to broker a treaty, if only to request more foodstuffs!”

Auguste’s grin widens infinitesimally, and Nikandros bites his lip in amusement.

“Come,” he says. “We should like to introduce our cousin to the rest of the House of Vere.”

-

Laurent is as dissimilar to his brother as dawn is to dusk.

They are very clearly related; it is apparent in the aristocratic slope of nose, although Laurent’s can almost be called dainty, which may only indicate his youth and nothing more.

Auguste’s hair is the color of burned wheat, with a slice of red tinting the edges. He looks like a man on fire, and Damen observes the younger watch his brother like a hawk.

Laurent’s spine never touches the back of his chair, and his hair is so long as to be almost ostentatious.

It is the style in Vere, then, to keep hair long and cumbersome. 

Damen’s hair sits in loose curls upon his head, haphazard when his household slaves do not have the chance to tame it.

Laurent’s is done in a loose braid that does nothing to hide the fine bones under his skin. 

He’s the most stunning child Damen has ever seen, and he looks away as quickly as he began.

The King of Vere sits on a throne that was designed as the greater half of a pair. The second throne is long empty.

Damen meets the eyes of the child when he turns his gaze away from the absence.

At first glance, Laurent’s face is bland and impassive, and Damen inclines his head in acknowledgement. Slender fingers flutter at the laces around his neck, and Damen bows before the King, who does likewise.

Aleron’s hair is almost completely silver, and there’s nothing of his youngest in his face. It is like looking at Auguste in the future, and, while more subdued, the congenial attitude is the same.

“When your father wrote of your journey,” Aleron says, “he did not mention you had grown so impressively!” Damen smiles widely at the compliment.

“I have eaten him out of house and home. Father thinks you’ll be better able to keep up with my appetites.” 

There is a soft snort behind him, and Damen stiffens. 

“Something to add, Lo?” Auguste says, coming up on the side that’s not currently occupied by their father. 

“Are you to grow his head as well, with all your flattery?” 

The room visibly tenses and while Auguste looks to be holding his smile in check, Damen cannot help but guffaw, against his best wishes.

Aleron’s brow smooths over and he claps Damen on the back.

“What is ceremony,” Damen says, towering over the youngest, “to one such as you?”

-

Damen’s hands are still chilled with the cold water he’d used to scrub them clean.

There is no blood splatter on him within view, and his sword is pristine, situated at his hip as always.

He’s got the book of Akielon fables that he’d brought as a gift.

Laurent comes in, worse for the wear, skin hidden behind three layers of fabric. He’s fiddling with the lacing at the top of his throat, and Damen can see that his hands are bloodless, as is the rest of his face.

Damen stands fluidly, and Laurent stumbles backwards, mouth open on a small cry. 

Damen finds himself abruptly agitated with his own existence, and he holds one hand out in supplication.

“Is it the Veretian way then, to tie to the point of strangulation, or only until lightheadedness befalls the wearer?”

He speaks softly as he approaches, and deftly knots the tie underneath the point of the boy’s chin.

Laurent colors under the attention, a pale blush, and winds one hand carefully around Damen’s wrist. His hand cannot nearly enclose all of it, and he takes a fortifying breath.

“Will you stay?” 

There is a commotion in the hall and then a shout.

_ Locate the princes  _ he hears in Veretian, and Laurent’s small hand tightens.

“You’ve yet to tell me what to do next,” Damen says, and he follows the dark edge of a bruise from the nape of the child’s neck down into the high collar of his shirt.

-

The pets lick the cream of the seventh course off of exposed genitalia, and Damen excuses himself for air.

He is far from prudish; he lost his virginity at fourteen to a nobleman’s daughter from Mellos. She had been as inexperienced as himself, and he often thinks fondly on the wetness of her cunt and his inability to last.

This display is obscene. It’s attractive in that way that the forbidden is, and he knows that Nik will come and search for him shortly, to ensure he doesn’t unintentionally offend the entire royal court of Vere.

“Decadent, no?” 

Damen is not easily startled, and even now he does not drop his hand from the hilt of his sword until he can make out the man behind the voice.

The King’s younger brother is dark where his brother is fair, and it suits him. He has a generous mouth and cobalt eyes.

His collar is as severe as the child’s.

“The more pressing the celebration, the more the flesh we offer our guests.” He laughs, head bowed.

“We’ve our share of entertainments in Akielos,” Damen offers. “I only find it taxing to decide whether to focus on food, fair Veretian skin, or other matters not so easily disposed of at mealtimes.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling with genuine mirth.

“Your wit is more a rapier than I thought,” he says, and they both pause as someone strides out onto the balcony.

It’s another child, Damen notes with moderate amusement. The child has mahogany hair and lashes that rival Laurent’s for length. He’s pretty in a frightening way.

“Have we finished? It’s late and I’m hot.” The voice is clear and unbroken, and he pouts prettily as he looks between the two of them.

“Is this the Prince of Akielos?” The boy asks in some astonishment, eyes blinking up into Damen’s bowed face.

“Hello, little one,” Damen says, and the child flushes under the attention. The King’s brother laughs, a sharp sound.

“Come now, Toren,” he says, and Damen nods a goodbye.

The boy has to jog a bit to keep pace, and Damen does not return to the feast.

-

“Whatever he asks of you, admit nothing. You are innocent. The whole of the Kingsguard found you with me in the library.” Laurent’s voice cracks at the end, a gentle fissure in a sea of glass.

“I will not mention you, should it come to it, little prince,” Damen promises, and Laurent’s hands tighten on his forearm.

Damen raises his arm a bit and draws Laurent onto tiptoes. He scrambles for purchase on the ground, flyaway strands of hair overlaid on flushed skin.

“I care not for--just be careful. You promised to stay,” Laurent says weakly, and Damen presses the palm of his hand on the crown of the boy’s head. It encapsulates it entirely, and Damen swallows down bile.

“I’ll not break my word to you,” Damen says, and Laurent nods once, twice, before springing back as the doors to the entrance room swing wide.

It is Auguste, and his face is pale and drawn. His eyes dart over Damen to come and rest heavily on his younger brother.

“Laurent,” he hisses, and Laurent launches himself across the room, long braid whipping through the air as he runs.

Auguste catches him around the middle and Laurent’s legs come to wrap around his waist.

“I am alright. I am alright. Auguste, please. I am safe,” Laurent repeats, and Damen watches helplessly. 

_ Of course he is safe. As if there was any alternative _

He cuts the thought short.

“I have come to deliver you to my father,” Auguste says, angling his chin just above his brother’s shoulder blade.

Laurent slides down to marble, and Auguste gently unravels his braid, a careless habit. Laurent does not seem to notice, blue eyes wide on Damen’s hazel.

Damen watches until Laurent’s hair swallows him alive, and he motions for the doorway, throat tight.

“By your lead,” Damen acquiesces. 

They leave Laurent behind.

-

“He has a favor to ask of you,” Auguste says, head uncharacteristically bowed.

“It is no longer safe in Vere.”

Damen clasps his hands behind his back in response.

“You must understand,” Auguste erupts, and Damen slows to a halt. “If anything. If anything at all were to befall my brother--you must understand. There is nothing that would ruin me more. It would be---intolerable,” said Auguste, and Damen makes a decision.

“Laurent is a lovely child,” Damen says, placing as much emphasis on the latter as he can. “I have made him as safe as I can in this court.”

Auguste does all but breathe.

“You will tell me.”

Damen takes him by the shoulder, and Auguste looks up in order to meet their height difference. 

“He was. Crying,” Damen says stiffly, and tightens his grip automatically as Auguste expectedly reaches for his scabbard.

“He was indecent when I made it to the sound. He appeared...afraid, but unsurprised,” Damen grits out, and now he cannot tell which of them is shaking the harder.

“He has bruising,” Damen adds, and Auguste makes a raw animal sound that Damen fears will alert the Princeguard.

“If you catch sight of it, he will tell you everything.”

Auguste looks up and away.

“Would but you had left me a place to sheath my own sword,” Auguste says, and when he smiles, it is a hard, ugly thing.

“When you speak to my father,” he says, “save your own life.”

-

Laurent falls asleep in the library most nights.

When Auguste is unavailable to take him to their shared rooms, Damen has taken up the habit.

The prince weighs no more than a feather in his hands. 

He shudders in his sleep and then turns toward Damen’s chest, resigned, the soil facing a deluge.

-

It is unsafe for both Princes of Vere to remain in Arles when the King’s brother has been ruthlessly murdered in his own bedchamber.

Every member of his personal guard has been put to death for failure to save his life.

Aleron looks like a man on the edge of a precipice.

Damen’s conscience sits uneasily in his chest.

For the sake of the treaty, and relying on human decency, Aleron pleads, Damen must take the youngest son to Akielos.

They will be separated, but safe from one who would commit regicide. 

Damen thinks of that heavy body, hovered over skin that bruises like a peach. 

He remembers all the blood.

To kill a snake, you must sever its head.

Damen accepts.

-

The waves are rocky, even by the dock.

Laurent does not release Damen’s hand.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caveat: the regent is in this. he's there in all his fucking evil, triggering glory. please tread carefully, as i care about your mental health.

When Laurent is seventeen, Damianos gifts him with a signet ring from the House of Akielos.

It appears ill-timed, but nothing Damen does is without purpose.

“Is this your way of offering that we remain in correspondence when I return to Vere?”

It is hot. Two summers ago, when Laurent was fifteen and gangly, he chopped his hair so that it fell to his shoulders.

He remembers Damianos’ face when he had seen it.

“Now when you braid Ameter’s mane, how will you match?” Laurent had looked in the mirror and considered that Damen may never forget what he had seen.

He couples the jest with a smile, but Damen does not reply in kind.

“I mean for it to show that you are under my protection when I take you back to your nest of vipers,” Damen replies, and there is none of the usual warmth in his tone.

Laurent blinks.

“It is time, then.” He offers it as a statement, rather than a question, and Damen still telegraphs his intent as he rests his palm on the crown of Laurent’s hair.

-

When Laurent is fifteen, Damen teaches him falconry. His hair has just begun to grow back in, and it falls in soft waves around his face. The Akielon heat renders it almost impossible to keep straight, and he has trouble braiding it without Auguste’s aid.

It is Damianos, then, who pulls it into a clumsy Veretian tail, fingers thick against the cradle of Laurent’s skull.

“Where did you learn your skill,” Laurent asks, mouth pursed. “It is atrocious. Careful, lest you tear out my hair from the roots.”

Damen laughs behind him, a full-bodied baritone that warms Laurent as thoroughly as it had the first time he’d ever heard it, over the third course of oxtail and lemon sauce.

“You wound me. I stayed up well past the wee hours of the morning, learning from your guards,” Damen said, and he pulls the shortened plait around to rest on Laurent’s shoulder for inspection.

Laurent can feel the pink-tipped flush of heat on his ears, and he rubs carelessly under one eye.

“Have we come all the way to Thrace to play schoolgirl?” Laurent locks his hands together in false supplication, and he is gifted with Damen’s laugh once more.

“I have brought you a falcon. You may name it, and then you must release it.”

Laurent’s neck aches as he leans far enough backwards to meet Damen’s eyes. “I see your obscenity does not only extend to your great height,” he says, and Damen takes his chin in two fingers.

The fingers are broad enough to cover most of the bottom half of his face, and Laurent sways into the touch.

Damen is twenty-one this past season, and the sun is partially obscured by his mass.

“Do you trust me?”

-

“Your father is ill. Your brother writes to request your immediate return,” Damen says, and Laurent follows Damen’s long stride with disguised effort.

“And why did Auguste not mention this in our routine correspondence,” Laurent muses, and Damen looks down on him, eyes crinkled.

They pass a slave girl cleaning inlaid colored glass, imported from Kempt. Her head snaps to the floor on instinct.

“Exalted,” she murmurs, and Damen spares a glance for her. She is a pretty thing, but for a scarred left arm. It is the only reason she has not been delivered to the Crown Prince’s rooms by this point in her life.

Damen’s fingers cup her chin and she flushes red under honey.

“Damianos,” Laurent says, and they continue, Damen’s free hand fixed at the small of Laurent’s back.

“It would appear he would prefer you take your vexation out on me, and me alone,” Damen replies, “as has always been your way.”

They reach Damen’s rooms in short order, and his guards step to the left and right, respectively, in order to give them space to enter.

Damen’s windows are opened against the waning heat of the day, and Laurent follows the pale cream of gossamer curtains as they flutter in the breeze.

He is abruptly uncomfortable in his collared outer jacket, and he bites down on his lip until he tastes salt.

“I am not vexed with you,” he says, and Damen barks out a laugh.

Laurent stumbles back at the harsh sound, and follows the rigid line of Damen’s exposed back.

The muscles in play are clearly angry, and Damen is bowed over his desk, a great mahogany monstrosity that was commissioned for his special use.

“H-Have I angered you?” Laurent asks, and he swipes at the blood collecting on skin. His hair is down to the small of his back, and damp curls stick to the base of his neck.

Damen turns around, eyebrows raised. “There is little you could do to cause me to have wrath with you, little one,” he says, and there is a shadow of his usual good humor.

“You have yet to answer me,” Laurent says, and he tugs at the intricate lacing at the bottom of his wrist. These are his summer clothes, designed with Akielon heat and Veretian sensibility in mind.

Damen’s hand encloses his own, and Laurent watches as both it and his entire wrist disappear from sight.

“I would have you stay. In Akielos.” Damen says, and when Laurent looks up, Damen is looking down.

-

On the day that Damen first murders, Laurent is barely dressed in his rooms when Uncle comes to visit.

Toren is not in sight, which means that he is recovering in Uncle’s bed, or meeting directly with Paschal.

Laurent’s shirt is over-large, and it collects at his knees. He is brushing the tangles that he can reach out of his head, and when Auguste comes to collect him, he will do the rest.

Uncle enters unimpeded, and Laurent drops the brush.

“Why have you stopped?” Uncle asks, eyes darting over Laurent’s hair, down to his knees.

He is suddenly very ashamed. He can feel the heat of his face, and Uncle steps closer and places both hands on his cheeks.

He smells very faintly of wine and blood.

“You are a lovely boy, Laurent,” he says, the same way he says it every morning, and Laurent drops his eyes.

“Yes, Uncle,” he replies, and Uncle runs one hand through his mane of hair.

“Would you like me finish brushing it?”

Uncle’s voice is low, and Laurent sways in place, lids fluttering closed.

“Yes, Uncle.”

Laurent fists two hands in the hem of his blouse and rubs his own knuckles against the soft skin above his knees.

Uncle bends in order to retrieve the brush, and lingers for a moment. Laurent can feel himself trembling.

Auguste will not come for another half hour, at best.

Uncle is very gentle when he runs the brush over the hard to reach spots, well aware that Laurent is tender-headed.

Uncle braces himself with one hand closed around the nape of Laurent’s neck, and the line of his body presses right against Laurent’s spine, the dip of his back and the soft flesh of his buttocks.

When Laurent closes his eyes, nothing is released.

-

When they arrive in Vere, there is an orgy in Damianos-Exalted’s honor.

Damen is much older than his last journey here, twenty and three summers.

His gaze is as open and frank as Laurent could not cure him of, but there is something wary in his eyes, a darkness he has carried since he severed Uncle’s neck from his body.

His eyes land on writhing flesh, cocks impaled in asses, thick cries of pleasure, and while his body straightens in obvious interest, he turns to face Laurent.

Laurent was young when he left Vere, and his neck grows uncomfortably warm at the spectacle.

“Would you like to see your father first?” Damen asks, even as Auguste cuts through the council, almost knocking Herode off of two feet.

Laurent does not have the chance to answer, because Auguste is crushing him, taller and broader as is custom.

“I had,” Auguste says, voice oddly strained, “expected you to grow in your absence.” Laurent flushes under the approval.

“I had them send you sketches,” Laurent quips, even as they walk arm in arm toward the palace.

“It is good then, that I put Damianos in charge of your upkeep,” Auguste says, and Laurent whirls around in a sudden panic, eyes darting over pale Veretian skin.

The Goldwind is docked, and Laurent follows the masts that hold golden sails aloft. The fabric was expensive, shipped from Vask, and it glows metallic in the fading sun.

Damianos had it built for his sixteenth year, and Laurent’s breath trips unevenly until he catches sight of Damen, heads taller than the tallest in this crowd.

His head is bowed toward Nik’s ear, brow furrowed.

Laurent turns back to listen to his brother, only to find Auguste staring down at him.

“What were you saying,” Laurent asks, tightening his grip on his brother’s forearm. Auguste pauses once and tucks a loose curl behind Laurent’s ear.

Laurent smiles widely, and Auguste presses a careless kiss to his forehead.

“Damen had portraits commissioned,” Auguste says, and Laurent stops short, almost running up the deep green of Auguste’s trousers.

“He had one sent every year to commemorate your nameday,” Auguste continues, and Laurent takes a fortifying breath as he meets the spires of Arles.

“I should like to see father,” he asks, and Auguste’s hand tightens.

-

Damianos looks uncollected for the interim between the slaughter and the aftermath.

Laurent’s face is blotchy with tears, and he is bruised from Uncle’s hand and the force of his stripping.

He has always known it would come to this, and he understands that he must never tell anyone. Uncle has always been kind, and if Laurent is unable to appreciate his attentions, that is a personal failing.

He is terrified.

It is different from when Uncle makes use of his mouth, bending him to his knees in empty corridors the servants save for last when cleaning.

He has never been fully bared to another’s gaze, and he cannot help the cry of pain at Uncle’s grip, nor the tears that follow.

What he does not expect, is the Akielon’s speed.

Prince Damianos has a body that lends itself to deadly force, a well-honed bludgeon.

Laurent did not think a man of that size could move with the swiftness he witnesses on this day.

Damianos’ eyes dart to him only once, supine underneath the cage of Uncle’s body, and Damianos grabs Uncle by the nape of his neck, hand so large that it immediately siphons the air from his lungs.

Uncle’s eyes are distended and when Damianos throws him against chilled marble, his trousers are still unlaced at the apex of his thighs.

“I cannot ensure your torment in the afterlife,” Damen says, and Laurent can see the energy rippling underneath his skin, a violent wave that Laurent somehow understands is not often unleashed, “but I can send you there.”

There is no hesitation in the swing, and Damen does not look at him as he orders Laurent to avert his gaze.

-

Damen’s rooms are adjacent to his own, and he enters without knocking. Damen’s guard bow respectfully, but they are undisturbed by his presence.

Damen is sprawled carelessly, a missive in his right hand, sent prior in his stead. He sets everything down beside him upon hearing Laurent’s entrance, and Laurent rushes forward to stand before him, hands resting on Damen’s wide shoulders.

“Auguste is readying my father for my visit,” he says, and he bites his lower lip in agitation.

Damen’s body coils with an unnamed tension, and he reaches up, although they are closer to an equal height with Damen seated, and tugs the flesh free of teeth.

Laurent’s mouth is slightly agape, and Damen’s thighs snap closed, Laurent still trapped between them.

“I am afraid,” Laurent confesses, and Damen’s eyes wink like stars. There is honey in his gaze, the same shade as the Goldwind, and he is looking at Laurent as if he’s never seen before this moment.

“You make me fear myself,” Damen says, after a protracted pause.

“Will you take me to my father?” Laurent asks, and when Damen nods, it is helpless.

-

Aleron cannot long speak without gasping for breath.

He begins to cry when he sees his youngest, and Laurent is so shocked that he crosses the room in three strides and lays his head upon his father’s breast.

“I am sorry, father,” Laurent says, for now he weeps as well, “it has been longer than either of us intended.”

Aleron runs his hands over Laurent’s hair, calluses from war catching on silk.

“Take it down, please,” he says, and Laurent’s hands tremble as he undoes the plait, careless with his movements.

“You are Hennike reborn,” Aleron says, and when Laurent’s hair falls, it canopies them both.

-

For his seventeenth nameday, Laurent drinks one glass of griva and needs to be carried to his bed.

Makedon has told the whole party that not only did the Veretian fosterling drink a glass with a straight face, but he did not immediately vomit following, which Makedon insists is a rite of passage.

He cannot, however, walk, and he asks Damen to help him with as much charm as he can muster. Damen has not left his side the whole evening, and does not appear to need much convincing.

He is laughing though, as he escorts Laurent out of the Great Hall and into the connecting corridors that lead to Laurent’s private chambers.

“May we give up the pretense of you relying on your own two feet?” Damen asks, and Laurent’s body feels too loose and warm to argue.

“You w-will be insufferable after this,” Laurent slurs, and then the world dips and straightens as Damen cradles him close to his chest.

They take the hall at a brisk pace, and Laurent turns his face to nuzzle into Damen’s neck.

“You took me to bed when you visited Arles,” Laurent murmurs, and Damen’s body stiffens against his own.

“You are drunk, little one,” Damen says, and Laurent shakes his head, hair free-flowing across his shoulders and Damen’s arm.

Laurent looks up and Damen is staring at him, eyes wide. Damen curses under his breath, a short, harsh sound and Laurent’s face wrinkles in confusion.

“Do not be cross with me, Damen,” he says, and Damen’s steps falter, “I o-only meant,” Laurent hiccups, “that you carried me to my rooms.”

Damen sighs, and he shifts Laurent’s weight to one forearm so that he can smooth the hair out of Laurent’s eyes.

“You were a mite smaller, then,” Damen says, and Laurent’s eyes droop in exhaustion. “I could not sleep alone,” Laurent replies, head lolling. “The library was safe. I was not...safe,” he continues, but it is late and Damen is humming underneath his breath.

Damen’s hands tighten on his person, almost to the point of bruising, and Laurent cannot tell if the kiss placed on his brow is fact or fantasy.

-

“Throughout my childhood, you have had portraits sailed to Vere, and have somehow managed to keep this from my knowledge?” Laurent asks, and Damen hands his reins to the stablemaster.

“Stealth is not my forte, I can concede,” Damen laughs, “but you need not sound so pleased.”

Laurent guides him back to the castle with a hand on his elbow, and Damen looks down on him in undisguised amusement.

Laurent’s boots echo strangely on unfamiliar ground, and he follows the swaths of tapestry that detail the hunts his ancestors created. The floor is crushed gold inlaid with rubies in honor of Auguste’s birth, and Damen’s eyes cross as he attempts to take in the display.

Laurent does not harass him until they reach Damen’s rooms, and then shoves at him in irritation.

Damen does not budge an inch, but his whole body shakes with silent laughter.

“How,” Laurent insists, and Damen cups the nape of his neck with one hand.

“I commissioned them out of sketches,” Damen explains, and Laurent finds it hard to think, with the small circles Damen rubs into his skin with one thumb.

“I did not see Belen following me across the Gulf of Atros to Isthima with a sketchbook,” Laurent says, and Damen’s hand ceases its movement.

“They are not still life,” Laurent insists, and he thinks about the great hall where Auguste proudly has him displayed next to mother, a crown of matching hair on their heads.

There is a portrait of him at fourteen, riding Ameter, directly after Damen had gifted her to him. His hair is loose, as it never should be when horseback, but he was so excited that Damen did not admonish him.

The painting is in Belen’s distinct hand, he knows, having sat for other royal Akielon portraits. He has a personal one of he and Damen at sixteen and twenty and two respectively, side by side in the throne room.

There is another of him, standing at the bow of Goldwind, hair done carelessly in a high bun atop his head. His cheeks are framed with the strands that have escaped his notice, and he has one arm outstretched in a wave.

“They are memories,” Laurent says, and Damen drops his gaze.

“I sketched them. In my own hand. I had them sent to Belen when I finished so he could recreate them.” Damen does not drop his hand, but it is heavy on Laurent’s skin. “If you are angered, let it be with me alone.”

Laurent holds himself very still.

“Truly,” he says, “you are the greatest fool Akielos has ever had hold the throne.”

Damen’s eyes spark with mirth and irritation, and Laurent reaches forward to fist two handfuls of chiton in his grasp.

“Speak plainly, then,” Damen says dryly, and Laurent is crying before he can think to staunch the flow.

“I have loved you,” Laurent begins, “since you had the wherewithal to tell me to look away when you took my Uncle’s life.”

Damen’s body tightens like an arrow, and his second hand rises in order to lift Laurent’s chin.

“You have saved me from a life of nothing, and given me everything in return.” Laurent cannot stop the tears, and Damen’s thumb is dry as he attempts to drag them away.

“Sweetheart,” Damen says, and Laurent crushes himself close, in a manner that ceased when he was five and ten and frightened of the way that Damen’s form made him shake at night.

“You do not want me,” Damen says heavily, and Laurent tips his head back.

“I have. I have the blood of your house on my hands,” Damen says. “I hold court with murderers. You were always meant to be kept pure.”

Damen’s voice rises in pitch, and Laurent shoves forward, connecting their mouths with little finesse.

Damen makes a sound like a growl, and his hands slide down to Laurent’s waist, connecting around the span of it.

He jerks Laurent closer until he is on tiptoes, feet barely brushing against the floor. Damen presses for entrance into his mouth, desperate but cautious, and Laurent sighs and opens wide, tongues tangling even as Damen carefully explores.

He nips, just once, at Laurent’s bottom lip and then steps back entirely, chest heaving.

Laurent’s gaze is directed southward, and he can see that Damen is rising to attention beneath his smallclothes.

“You saved me from my own hand,” Laurent says, and his hair is half undone. He knows Damen favors his coloring, remembers his lingering gaze as he grew, fixed upon the spun gold of his hair.

Laurent undoes the plait slowly, and Damen’s hand curls into a fist.

“Please.”

Laurent is heedless. Damen has always given him his way in all things.

Laurent is shaking as he drags his fingers through hair in order to shake it free, and Damen makes a sound Laurent has only heard behind closed doors and his imagination.

“I have never been touched,” Laurent says softly, and Damen braces his weight on the back of a nearby chair.

“I want to know what it could be like,” he says, and he begins to unlace his wrist, hands deft at the mundane task.

The left wrist quickly follows its sibling, and the lacing at his throat was already loose in his haste to meet Damen after his ride.

He leaves the blouse untouched but for that, and loosens the lacing of his pants just enough to slide free, kicking them to the ground beside his feet.

He knows what he looks like.

“Laurent. Have mercy. Please.” Damen is reduced, his knuckles almost pale with the grip he has on wood, and Laurent feels suddenly invincible.

“Come here.”

Damen moves like a puppet on a string, big body stalking in Laurent’s direction.

“Do you want me, Damianos-Exalted?” Laurent asks, and Damen does not answer for a moment, hand suspended in the air above Laurent’s head.

“More than I care for my throne,” Damen says, honestly, and he takes Laurent by the waist.

This time, he purposefully rucks up the hem of Laurent’s shirt, and he drags brown hands over the porcelain of Laurent’s thighs.

“Your cock is so sweet,” Damen whispers, rubbing a thumb against the slit, just to hear Laurent mewl.

“Is your hole sweeter?” Damen asks, voice serious. “I want to taste you there. I would spread your thighs and lick you wet. Will you allow me?”

Laurent blinks in helpless confusion, and suddenly his head is lost. “It is f-filthy,” he stutters, and Damen leans down to suckle at his neck, small bites that leave Laurent weak in the knees.

“Allow me,” Damen asks again, and Laurent mewls as Damen’s hands travel around, cupping his cheeks with a heavy squeeze.

“If you please,” Laurent concedes, and he can _feel_ Damen’s smile against the reddened skin of his neck.

Damen is quick; he deposits Laurent on the bed and rucks his blouse up to his armpits.

“Remove that,” Damen says, and Laurent’s cock twitches. He sounds like a King. Laurent does as he is bade and Damen’s cock is so hard that Laurent can make out its girth underneath fabric.

“I could have let you return to Vere sooner,” Damen says, “but how was I to trust anyone with this?”

Damen presses his thighs wide, and Laurent trembles in mortification and want.

“I want to see you,” Laurent demands, and Damen laughs.

“When have I ever denied you?” Damen asks, and he kneels in order to unpin his chiton and shove it down past his legs.

Damen’s cock is long and curved very gently to the right, head unsheathed from the skin, pearled pre-come beaded at the tip.

“Damianos,” Laurent breathes, and Damen flushes with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

“Do you plan to press all of that inside me?” Laurent asks, and Damen replaces his hands on Laurent’s thighs.

“When I have made you wet by mouth and oil, if you will have me, I will fill you,” Damen says, and Laurent shivers.

“Do you talk to all your bedslaves in as frank a tone?” Laurent asks, and the air in the room cools. Damen meets his gaze squarely, and Laurent feels very small.

“I have kept none since you reached your fifteenth year and I understood that I was ruined for all others,” Damen says without artifice.

Damen reaches down to play with the hair splayed across Laurent’s nipple. He tweaks the nub with thumb and index, and Laurent’s body bows in delight.

“Damen!”

“Shall I kiss them?” Damen asks, and he leans forward, sealing his mouth around the left. It is an exquisite torture, and Laurent squirms as the suckle turns into the harsh sting of a bite, the localization of pain.

His cock is hard, slapping wetly against Damen’s lower abdomen as he humps the air in abandon.

Damen moves to the other, and slaps his left nipple as he bites at the right. Laurent can feel the tears leaking from his eyelids, and he gasps for air.

“I want your mouth,” Laurent says, crying. “You p-promised you would make me wet. I would hold myself open for that,” Laurent says, and he is rewarded by the animalistic groan Damen makes.

“I did not take you from Vere soon enough,” Damen says, “with a mouth like that on you.”

Damen’s hands are soft as they travel down his sides, and his brown eyes are warm.

“You are exquisite,” he says, and Laurent turns his face to the side. “There is no part of you I do not want to keep for myself.”

Laurent makes an unintended sound, and Damen presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

Laurent is quick to comply, and he hitches his hips up just enough so that his ass gently shakes. He has pictured how he would seduce Damen for years, but never did he think it would occur like this.

“Laurent. There are kinder ways to kill a man,” Damen says, and his voice is tight.

“Do you not enjoy me?” Laurent asks, and Damen’s hands slap against his cheeks, and Laurent wails into the pillow.

“I will be gentle,” Damen says, “but I cannot promise patience.”

Damen’s hands are large enough to hold his cheeks apart with ease, and Laurent feels the hot gust of air before Damen’s lips seal over his hole, suckling much like they did to his nipples earlier. Damen’s teeth scrape gently against sensitive skin, and Laurent’s hard cock is trapped beneath him and the bedspread.

“Damen, please,” Laurent begs, and Damen makes a satisfied sound into the meat of his ass.

Damen slurps loudly, and Laurent finally cannot help himself; he humps backwards, forcing low grunts of pleasure out of his throat at every slap of his ass against Damen’s face.

Damen draws back far enough to speak, circling one dry finger against his puffy rim.

“Keep doing that, sweetheart,” he breathes, and Laurent buries his face entirely, so that he is free to scream.

His cock is so warm that it may blow any second, and he doesn’t want that, not until he has figured out how to work Damen inside of him.

Damen presses his tongue forward, wiggling it past the outer resistance.

“I am going to spill, Damen,” Laurent warns, and he presses his hips back, grinding in a lewd circle against Damen’s face.

Damen retreats, but Laurent can hear his breathing even from beneath his pillow.

“Have you oil, sweetheart,” Damen asks, and Laurent nods in slight shame at his preparation.

It waits behind the windowsill, covered by a brocaded curtain made of red velvet. Damen accurately follows Laurent’s pointed finger and the phial sits in Damen’s hand, looking miniature in scale.

“You must promise to stop me if you are in pain,” Damen says, but his voice is strained and Laurent thinks that neither of them could stop now if they tried.

“Yes, Damianos-Exalted,” Laurent says, just to hear Damen curse behind him.

Damen gently shakes first his left, then his right cheek, and Laurent can just make out his muttering, in common Akielon.

He gently pulls Laurent up by the hips so that he resembles a bitch in heat, ass tipped forward and bared to Damen’s gaze.

“You make it impossible for me to think,” Damen says abruptly, and then his finger is wet, circling around Laurent’s relaxed hole.

Laurent’s mouth drops open on a soundless moan when the first finger enters, and then he can no longer control the sounds he makes.

This frightens him less than it once would, but Damen makes enough noise for the both of them.

“You are spread so beautifully on my hand,” Damen grits out, and Laurent humps backwards, riding Damen’s three digits with no shame.

“Damen. I want your cock. I h-have waited long enough,” he says, and he reaches behind himself in order to spread his ass wider, so that Damen may look his fill upon that place that now belongs solely to him.

“Is it wet and swollen?” Laurent asks, and he can feel the blood leaving his fingertips; they’re holding his cheeks so wide open.

“ _Laurent.”_ Damen says, and then his fingers are gone and there is sudden fumbling and Damen has returned, cockhead pressed just to Laurent’s opening.

“Stop me,” Damen commands, and he breaks the seal.

The first inch of cock inside his body is life-changing. Laurent’s insides rearrange themselves, as there is nothing in all the world he wants more than for Damianos of Akielos to house his cock inside his body as long as he holds space.

Laurent doesn’t realize that the loud moans belong to him until Damen bottoms out, balls slapping against the bruised skin of his inner thighs.

“The whole of Vere will know you are being bedded,” Damen warns, but there is nothing but base satisfaction in his voice.

“When I scream your name,” Laurent breathes out, “then they will have their answer as to by whom.”

Damen laughs unexpectedly, and it is different, with his cock sheathed so deeply, and both Laurent and Damen groan in tandem.

“You are so very tight,” Damen says, and then he pulls out, only to ram back inside.

Laurent is still face down, and the thrust flattens him entirely, only Damen’s cock available to keep him partially upright.

The speed with which he accepts so much flesh is astounding, and he cannot help the disjointed groans he emits whenever Damen starts thrusting in earnest.

“You are stunning,” Damen says, and he pries Laurent’s cheeks apart so he can focus on where his cock disappears.

“Turn over, love,” Damen says, and he pulls out long enough for Laurent to mourn his absence, hole winking hungrily on empty air.

He can see Damen’s face, skin flushed with sweat and exertion, abdominal muscles obscene as they are put to work.

Damen pushes Laurent’s thighs up to his ears and Laurent is nonplussed as he watches his body suck in cock to the hilt.

Laurent’s mouth is open on a groan and Damen leans forward to plunder it, big hands still trapping Laurent’s legs in the air.

Damen kisses with purpose, gentle sucks and nibbles that render Laurent’s mouth swollen and unmistakably ravaged.

Damen moves one hand into Laurent’s hair, winding his wrist around it, and Laurent’s body jolts up the bed as he allows his neck to fall listlessly to the side so that he can see the contrast of gold to olive.

Damen is unforgiving, and Laurent feels skewered open in the best way.

“Look at me,” Damen pleads, and Laurent meets his eyes, mouth parted.

“You are the most beautiful thing I know. I have loved you,” Damen’s hips stutter and Laurent looks down to his own cock, red-violet and soaked, pearls of fluids fucked out just from this.

Laurent whimpers at the sight and leans his neck up so he can see Damen’s balls slap against his behind, forceful.

“I have loved you since you told me to save my life at the expense of your own,” Damen admits, and Laurent’s eyes roll back into his head and when he comes, it is untouched, cock jerking in the air.

His come hits his own chin and splatters against the soft skin of his stomach, and Laurent thinks that he could keep this ending for always.

-

When he comes to, he is cleaned but still nude, blanket draped carelessly over his lower half. Part of his buttocks is still exposed to the room, but he is too relaxed to properly care.

He turns his head with great lassitude, but Damen is not resting beside him.

He sits up abruptly, fear in his chest, and he sees Damen at the desk off of the side of his bed, scribbling madly.

Laurent runs a hand through his hair and Damen looks up, flushing claret guiltily.

“Hello,” Damen says softly, and Laurent stands, heedless of his nudity.

Damen’s eyes glaze over, and Laurent can see that he is bruised from head to a toe, a mural of Damen’s lovemaking.

Damen’s hands reach for him before he is even close enough to touch, and Lauren settles in his lap, red cheeks against the soft fabric of Damen’s chiton.

Damen’s hand rests tantalizingly close to Laurent’s cock, and the muscles in his lower abdomen jump in awareness.

“I’ll not be able to just hold you for long,” Damen says helplessly, and Laurent arranges himself so that he is perched just atop Damen’s cock.

His hole is swollen and sore, intensely warm in a way that he is already addicted to.

Laurent grinds back and forth and then leans forward to see what Damen is working on.

Laurent catches the beginning of his own hip, curled in sleep, and follows the well-rendered lines of his long hair.

Damen’s hand tightens around his waist, and Laurent can tell he did not intend to be caught.

“Do you think Belen could be persuaded to make this large enough to hang over our bed in Akielos?” Laurent asks, after a fashion.

Damen turns his face into Laurent’s neck and laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come cry with me](http://brosamigos.tumblr.com/)


End file.
